Hudson Pruitt stood safe and dry behind the glass, cradling a steaming cup of coffee. He raised his phone, snapping a photo of our miserable, drenched figures in the rain, and posted it immediately.
The caption glowed through the window: *"Senior colleagues work so hard, staying serious even in the rain. Guess I need to step up my game too~ Cute."*
Evelyn Fox stared at the post. Her knuckles went white around the bucket handle. "I'm going to kill that little bastard."
I caught her arm before she could move. "Don't."
"He's mocking us!"
"Smash the glass, you pay for it. He's not worth the debt." I kept my voice low, steady. "Besides. He won't be jumping around much longer."
For the New Year's Day event, headquarters had transferred a limited-edition global supercar to our showroom—a one-week exhibition piece worth nearly twenty million. Pitch-black. Lines smooth as a hunting cheetah. The kind of machine that didn't ask for attention.
It demanded worship.
Manager Whitney called an all-hands meeting specifically for this car. His voice dropped into a grave register he usually reserved for funerals.
"Listen up! This car is our ancestor! No one touches it. Chip a single flake of paint and selling your organs won't cover the cost." He puffed out his chest, radiating self-righteous authority. "Especially the interior. Genuine leather. Hand-stitched by top Italian craftsmen. Extremely precious. Do not touch it."
He scanned the room.
"Do you hear me?"
Heads bobbed frantically.
But the moment the meeting ended, Whitney ushered Hudson Pruitt into his office. When Hudson emerged, a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. Barely concealed arrogance.
I had a suspicion.
Sure enough—when the staff headed to the cafeteria for lunch, Hudson sneaked back into the showroom. Alone.
He fired up a livestream titled: *"New ride just dropped. Taking the bros for a spin."*
He mounted his phone on the steering wheel, tilting the angle to capture his "perfect" side profile and the luxury logo on the headrest.
"Family, look at this interior—pure handmade, low-key luxury." A wink at the camera. All performance. "This car's just so-so. Bit over twenty million. I usually just use it for grocery runs."
The chat exploded. Viewers who didn't know better spammed "666" and "Rich boss, take me for a ride!"
Intoxicated by the flattery, Hudson pulled a cigar from his pocket. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Blew a slow, pretentious smoke ring.
"A man must have taste," he declared.
Then his hand twitched.
A clump of burning ash fell directly onto the pristine white leather of the passenger seat.
A black hole. Fingernail-sized. Seared into the material.
Hudson froze.
The blood drained from his face.
He killed the livestream. Scanned the room frantically. His gaze landed on a work jacket hanging on a nearby rack.
Moving with the guilt of a thief, he sprinted over and stuffed the smoldering cigar butt into the jacket's pocket.
Half an hour later, Manager Whitney's roar shook the walls.
"Who did this?! Who is responsible?!"
He pointed a trembling finger at the glaring black hole. His face twisted into an ugly shade of green. Staff crowded around. When they saw the damage, a collective gasp sucked the air from the room.
A twenty-million-dollar supercar.
One burn hole could cost a house down payment.
Hudson cowered behind the crowd, feigning shock.
"Manager... I... I think I saw Uncle Simon wandering around the car earlier. He... he looked like he was smoking..."
